


One More Hand Me Down

by hauntedlittledoll



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Amnesia, Animal Transformation, Bodyswap, Chicken Pox, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Lit Terms, edgar allan poe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:02:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title taken from Matchbox 20's song, "Hand Me Down," to reflect a collection of otherwise unrelated DC prompts and drabbles spanning the entire franchise (although heavily concentrated with Preboot Batman), devolving into alternate universes, future fic, past fic, pop culture references and more.</p><p>Miscellaneous ratings and warnings apply--no explicit material contained herewithin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Air Plants and Infants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for kiragecko - "Tim - 12 [Accidental Baby Acquisition]"

"This isn’t happening."

"Oh, but it is, Timmy.  C’mon, you can do it—look!  She’s counting on you."

Tim eyed the infant warily.  “Dick, even at two months old, she realizes that I’m the least competent long-term care provider in the Cave.  _Damian_ is more proficient at keeping small living things … well, alive.  _Damian._ ”

Damian refused to be baited out from under the Batmobile where he had taken cover with Titus.  His superiority was already recognized; he had no intention of proving it.

"Tim, you are the most responsible person I know after Alfred."

"I killed an air plant, Dick!  An air plant!  You set it on a shelf, and you don’t touch it, and _I killed it!”_

The air plant had been a gift from the Titans, confident that a long string of dead houseplants and unfortunate goldfish would be cured by the utter lack of care required to maintain an air plant.  They were wrong.

Dick made a face as he liberated the baby from her carrier.  “I’m not sure how you managed that one,” Dick admitted.  “But she’s a baby, Timmers, not a plant.  If you forget about her or if she’s unhappy, she makes noise.  A lot of noise.”  Dick pressed his nose into his new niece’s belly and inhaled the usual scent of baby powder and wet diaper.

As if on cue, she produced a sound of adorable discontent.

Dick prodded Tim until the younger man unwillingly held out his arms for the infant.  Tim was already a natural in Dick’s opinion; his arm curving to provide the right amount of support, cuddling the baby close automatically.  “You’ll have lots of help, Tim.  You’ll be fine,” Dick announced with satisfaction.

"Why can’t people leave their babies on the Red Hood’s doorstep?" Tim moaned dejectedly against the baby’s fuzzy little head as if he had any intention of letting her go.


	2. The Things We Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for anonymous - "Helena Wayne and Jason Todd pretending to be married"

"I’m not slow-dancing in the middle of the ballroom like a trick pony," Jason refused outright.  "Your little brother is already trying to kill me with laser vision."

_Damian clearly had his suspicions regarding the veracity of Jason’s story, but since he’s the only Bat to recognize the Huntress without her mask, their odds weren’t terrible._

_Even if Damian didn’t think Jason worthy of his sister._

"He doesn’t even have laser vision," Jason griped under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck and wishing that he was in his normal costume instead of a ridiculous tuxedo.

"My closest friend does," Helena reminded him blithely.  "Besides, he’s your little brother too."  She reached for a glass of champagne, still using Jason as a shield.

_Bruce might be completely oblivious to certain genetic traits, but Alfred … the old butler could bring down more than one charade if he put the pieces together._

"Don’t say that," Jason made a face as he liberated a beverage of his own.  "It sounds all weird when you say it like that."

"The things we do for Gotham," Helena agreed.  "Cheers."


	3. Shaken, Not Stirred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Anonymous - "Alfred and Jason Todd - amnesia"

_"Red Hood, report."_

"Nothing to report," Jason hissed back.

_"What is Agent A’s status?"_

"What do you think his status is?  He still thinks he’s barely thirty and works for MI6.  Sneakier than any of us ever knew and paranoid as hell."

_"Your sarcasm is unappreciated, Hood."_

Jason rolled his eyes and peered cautiously over the corner.  It had been a good night … quiet, bordering on peaceful between muggings.  Now, the Red Hood was reduced to trailing a seventy year old man through Gotham’s morning rush.

Jason dodged back as his target turned at the corner.  He felt like he was in a bad spy movie—all he needed was a pair of sunglasses.

Counting to ten, he peered back.

Alfred was gone.

"I lost him.  Agent A is in the …" Jason trailed off as a throat cleared politely behind him.  "Aww, man."

_"Hood, report!"_

"Pretty sure I’m about to get my arse kicked," Jason obeyed, even as he turned his brightest, most charming smile on the spy-turned-butler-turned-spy.  He was going to lose, and lose badly, but dang, it was going to be fun along the way.  "God Save the Queen?"

"Quite, good sir."


	4. We Only Wanna Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for akar3n - "genderswap - Jason Todd"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like a Woman!"

"Why are you not freaking out?" Tim demanded, spinning his bo-staff into the knee of an inconveniently-placed ninja.  "I’m freaking out, and it’s not even my body."

"Little Red, spontaneously turning into a woman doesn’t even make my top ten list of weird shit happening to me."  Jason doesn’t turn around, just adds more bullet-holes to the landscape with careless precision.  "Besides, being female hasn’t in any way interfered with my ability to shoot things.  My balance is a little messed up, sure, but I can still shoot things.  And if I can still shoot things, the day is not yet ruined."

Tim shudders; he can’t even imagine trying to fight in a completely alien body.  So many years of training that would need to be relearned, adjusted, fine-tuned …

"Besides, girl or no, I’m still taller than you, Baby Bird."

Tim’s eye twitched.  “You’re wearing heels.”

Jason cackled.  It was a hair-raisingly high pitch.  “I could give you the heels, Baby Bird, and I’d _still_ be taller.”


	5. Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for falsep0sitive - "If you aren't overwhelmed with this, I would love a Tim and Damian bodyswap. (P.S. Your writing is amazing)."

"It isn’t fair, Father!"

Bruce sank a little deeper in his chair, and tried to look fully absorbed in what the Bat Computer had to say about their little magic problem.

"Father, are you listening?"  Damian demanded.

Bruce was listening.  He had never heard Tim’s voice so subtly affected by Damian’s accent before.  The effect was positively eerie … soft and crisp, like a particularly well-read book on tape.

Although, perhaps a touch cranky for the average consumer.

"I demand that you put an end to Drake’s … _shenanigans_.”

On the security feet, he could still see Tim—blissfully unbothered by wearing his younger brother’s body.  Perched atop Superboy’s shoulders and fairly stuffed with the cookies that Kid Flash kept bringing like some kind of modern offering at the alter of an all-powerful childish deity, Tim appeared to be having the time of his life with the Titans’ impromptu mothering.

Bruce had never seen that kind of blissful, content smile on his youngest son’s face before.  And now that he knew it existed, the Batman would spend many nights trying to figure out a way to earn the smile from its rightful owner.

Damian—who was wearing Tim’s body with nothing but ill-will—did not see it the same way.

"Make him stop," Damian whined, crossing his brother’s arms and settling into the chair opposite.  He was bad-tempered and vicious at what he saw as an unfair use of his smaller stature.  "They keep pinching his—my—cheeks!"

"I’m not ordering your brother to stop being adorable in your body," Bruce decreed, all the while silently despairing of the insanity that was his life.

All he wanted to do was dress up like a bat, and punch crime in the face.  Repeatedly.  How had he come by seven children in the process?

Clark never had these kind of problems.


	6. Terrible Siblings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Anonymous - "For the hug meme - Damian and Cass, #15 [Couch Cuddling]"

"What happened?"

Despite the unexpected proximity of his sister, Damian very deliberately did not jump, flinch, or otherwise flail off the couch.  Having both legs trapped by heavy casts was actually helpful in this endeavor.

"I have a knife on my person," he warned idly as Cassandra tucked herself into the narrow space between him and the arm of the couch.

"Not anymore," Cass returned, holding the blade out of reach and flicking it neatly at the dartboard on the wall.  "What happened?"

"Training accident," Damian issued shortly, glaring at Grayson’s loopy signature curving over his right foot.  Pennyworth’s script was on his left, and Brown had signed the bottom of his foot just to be difficult.  "With the Titans."

It was sort-of true.  _Damian_ had been training at least.  The other Titans had been filling their faces, and when the clone went for Damian’s clearly marked carton of strawberry ice cream … well, Damian couldn’t let that slide.  He had launched himself off the ceiling at the unsuspecting teenager’s back, and the super-powered teen was so startled by being beset from above that Kon pitched the younger boy over his head at full strength.

Bad angle meet super speed and force.

The collision with the coffee table in the next room could have been worse.  Damian could have broken his neck instead of his legs if his reaction time had been a millisecond off.  Contrary to the family’s opinion, assassin-training was good for _something_.

Cassandra was quiet.  She was only quiet when she was reading him, and Damian objected strongly to that particular exercise.

"Superboy is a menace," Damian elaborated pointedly.  Cassandra had an inexplicable fondness for the alien clone, and if Damian couldn’t sour that affection, he could at least use it as an excuse to get away from his sister’s all-knowing gaze.

Cassandra hummed an acknowledgement and trapped Damian against her side.  “He is careless sometimes,” she allowed, stroking Damian’s hair as if he was a cat.  “So are you.”

Damian scowled.  Resistence was futile—Cassandra would not release him, and he was already down two limbs.  No sense in provoking the woman into making a clean sweep of it.

"You are a terrible sibling," he announced instead, burying his face in her shoulder.  "Even Drake was angry on my behalf."

That was a little uncomfortable.  _Grayson’s_ temper was to be expected.  _Brown’s_ illogical ire with the entire team a pleasant diversion.  _Drake_ was not meant to side with Damian.  It defied the natural order of the world.

You are ten, little brother,” Cassandra shrugged.  “And you are broken.”  She sounded almost fond as she continued to alternate between petting him and squeezing all air from his lungs.  “And heavily-medicated.”

Judging by the relative ease with which the small woman had coaxed him into cuddling, Damian had to agree.

His sister pressed a kiss to the top of his head.  “Responsible parties must always suffer for that.  It’s our job.”

Damian perked up a little.  “Then you will join Drake and Brown in exacting unholy vengence?”

"No," Cass laughed, her amusement loud and unladylike.  "Trust me, little brother, they won’t need help."

Damian frowned again as he pillowed his head in her lap.  “Terrible sibling,” he repeated.

"One of many," she returned, and Damian barely felt the nerve strike that put him under


	7. Make It Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for ephemeraltea - "Dick and Tim, 13 [Sleep Cuddling] . . ."

It had been a long night, and Alfred was determined to get some food into his charges before evicting them from the Bunker for some much-needed rest.  Master Bruce certainly would not thank them for running themselves ragged in his absence.

Gotham had stood over a hundred years before the Batman.  The city could survive another eight hours while the children slept.

Alfred opened his mouth to announce something to this effect as he descended into the Bat Bunker, but closed it at a frantic shushing motion from the lovely redhead on the monitor.

Very quietly, Alfred left the ladder and moved to the console.  Young Master Damian was sleeping in the Batman’s over-sized chair, limbs thrown wide as if to claim every inch of real estate possible.  Alfred’s mustache twitched with growing fondness of the young boy and his multitude of quirks.

The lad’s older brothers were not so comfortable, having somehow wedged themselves both into the visitor’s chair a few feet away.  Although both chairs were similar in size, the heroes were decidedly not.  Master Timothy would have been in danger of falling off if not for Master Richard’s arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

Neither party woke when Alfred patted their shoulder’s affectionately, although Master Richard made a snuffling sound not unlike his elephants as the Batman buried his face in his younger brother’s hair.  Master Timothy slumbered on; he had always been able to sleep like the dead.

"I assume you’ve archived the footage, my dear?" Alfred addressed the monitor in bemusement as he tucked a discarded cape around the older pair.  The other had already been spread over their sleeping Robin, and Alfred suspected Red Robin’s sleight of hand responsible for the feat.

"They’ll never find it," Miss Barbara assured him, "but I printed a few stills for your photo album."  She smiled softly at the sleeping boys, before returning to the butler.  "The Birds have the city, Alfred."

"Thank you, my dear.  Do try to get some rest."

"You too, Alfred.  You too."


	8. Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for anonymous - "For the meme - Jason and Damian #7 [for warmth]"

It was the frigid temperatures and blinding conditions that made the confrontation with Mr. Freeze so difficult.  The villain was in his element and the Bats were feeling the effects of subzero temperature regardless of gear.  It was all they could do to combat the weather and terrain.  To have one of the nameless, faceless minions break character and pull a gun—it just wasn’t fair.

Damian never saw the bullet coming, never heard the echo of the shot, couldn’t have possibly braced himself for impact let alone dodged.  Between his location and the precarious nature of the ice, Damian could only topple from the bridge railing.

He made a pained grab for the bridge supports, but the boy hero was numb, tired, and shot.  Robin was already in free-fall, and the ice below didn’t even pretend to hold his weight.

The last thing Damian saw was his older brother diving over the edge after him. He lost time then, but the vice-like grip around his wounded side burned like fire even though the rest of Damian was colder than he could possibly quantify.

Damian choked as he was forcibly shoved to the surface, coughing and sputtering as someone else caught him under the arms and hauled him from the water with a grunt.

"Get ‘im back!" he heard Todd yell.  "Go, BG, go!"

Just a few seconds ago, the Red Hood was on Fries’ side.  Damian had been personally engaged in battle with the older vigilante.  Now the Red Hood was a Bat again.  It was confusing.

Damian pressed his cheek against Batgirl’s slightly warmer one as she headed for the banks.  He wasn’t sure when the woman had joined them on the untrustworthy ice, but everything hurt and the blonde was persisting in moving him anyway.

Damian pried his eyes open enough to watch Todd pull himself out although the man waited for them to reach the safety of the bank before following.

Robin had to swallow back an unbecoming shriek as he was passed from one former Robin to another, panting as he was partially stripped and bundled into an eggplant-lined cape.  They were talking above him but Damian wasn’t paying attention until Brown pressed the Red Hood’s discarded jacket against his side.

Damian almost bit through his own tongue.

"I know, baby," she crooned.  "I know.  Just hang on, Robin.  Everything is going to be okay."

"Barely a scratch," Todd rumbled right next to Damian’s ear, curling around him as if the man had any heat left to offer.  "A’s gonna need a magnifying glass to treat that."

Damian did not believe them for a moment, but it was polite of them to pretend.

One of Todd’s arms was locked around his upper torso, and the man was using his free hand to smooth Damian’s hair back from his face.  It wasn’t working; Damian’s hair was already freezing in damp spikes that resented the effort.

"It’s not fair," Damian insisted, trying to keep his voice steady.  "Fries' men don’t use guns.  It’s out … out …"

Brown hushed him.  She was using both hands to apply pressure, but Damian could already feel a numbness setting in that was part cold and part shock.

"Out-of-character," Todd supplied, rocking back and forth ever so slightly.  "Don’t worry about it, Bitty Bird, ‘cause as soon as he’s out of traction I’m gonna fill _him_ with holes and dump _him_ into the bay.  See how he likes it.”

"T-traction?" Damian forced through chattering teeth.

"Pretty sure two hundred pounds of acrobat and Kevlar landed on him before either of us hit the water, kiddo."  One large hand rested briefly against Damian’s forehead.  "Hurry it up, BG, kid’s hardly shivering anymore."

Damian felt himself be jostled, and the fire in his side flared again.

"Hold on, sweetie," Brown murmured before breaking off to flag down the approaching Batmobile.  A flying vehicle was incredibly convenient in cases like these.

"You just sit tight," Todd hummed as Cassandra and Drake started towards them.  "Big brother’s gotcha."


	9. Theater of the Absurd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for akar3n - "4 [sick!fic]: Damian and Jason"

When Alfred Pennyworth asked a favor, that favor was granted—no questions asked.

This was the only reason Jason hadn’t put the kid out of his misery yet.

_The.  Only.  Reason._

"If you scratch one more time, I will cuff you to the kitchen chair," Jason murmured in his little brother’s ear, capturing a wrist in each hand once more.  "You’ll make it worse."

"It cannot possibly get any worse," Damian sniffed haughtily, covertly rubbing his elbow against the armrest of the couch.

Jason elbowed the offending limb away from the rough material, pinning his little brother’s arms across his chest once more.  “It can always get worse,” Jason predicted darkly as Damian twisted in his lap to fix him with a glower worthy of the Bat himself.

So much hatred in those precocious baby blues.

Jason didn’t remember being this much of a pain in the ass when he had the chicken pox.  He just watched TV and slept a lot like a normal kid.  Aside from arguing against the whole Pepto-Bismol coloured lotion thing, Jason had been a model patient for Alfred.

Apparently, Jason had been Alfred’s only chicken pox patient.  Secluded childhoods had deprived Bruce, Tim, and Cass the same joyful experience, Steph had gotten it over with long before becoming a vigilante, and Dick Grayson was the golden child who regularly defied gravity, Gordons, and germs.

To avoid a family-wide epidemic, Alfred had bundled Damian off to the Red Hood’s shitty little apartment for quarantine.  It was currently fifty-fifty if it was the disease or the criminal that would do the current Boy Wonder in.

"Just sit still and watch the cartoons until I can give you more Tylenol," Jason subsided wearily.  "Five more hours of _Looney Toons_ , kid—it’s better than Disney World.”

"Tt," Damian muttered; his fever-addled attention span had already been caught by the antics of the cartoon duck on the television.  Jason rested his chin against the kid’s head and thanked his lucky stars for the WB marathon.

There had been an argument in the beginning regarding infantile entertainment, but it had gradually faded into token protests.  By the fourth time Sylvester failed to make the canary his dinner, Damian had been fully converted.

"It is Theater of the Absurd for children," Damian announced gravely, riveted by the promise of explosives in the Road Runner shorts.  "Nothing is achieved.  Nothing changes.  Yet they do it again and again, waxing philosophical in pithy bursts of wordplay."

"Puns," Jason corrected, "and that is a lot of dynamite for one bird."

"The excess will only blow up in his face once the Road Runner has outsmarted the beast yet again," Damian assured him as if the kid was an expert six episodes in.  "His excessive efforts will only make the eventual downfall that much worse."

Jason snorted.  “Not a Beckett fan then?”

Damian sniffed, settling against Jason’s shoulder once more.  “Stoppard.”

"Watch it, Chicken Little," Jason grumbled half-heartedly.  There was so much promise in a Robin that _reads_.  ”Or you just might hurt my feelings.”


	10. Underlying Meaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Anonymous - "BEST MEME EVER. DC, Tim+Damian, 17: hugs from behind? :)"

Being careful not to tap the cane against the floor, Tim times his attack perfectly.  He’s slipped up behind his target before the boy even realizes that he’s there, and slings both arms around his victim’s neck before the boy can do anything about it.

Damian stiffens upon contact, but Tim ignores his younger brother in favor of turning his most charming smile on Damian’s conversation partner.  “Ms. Vale.”

"Oh, Vicki please, Timothy," she returns with a smile just as fake.

Bruce may have some sort of arrangement worked out with the reporter, but relations between Red Robin and Vicki Vale are … frosty.

"I see you found my brother," Tim offers conversationally.  He taps Damian’s chest lightly, and after a moment’s hesitation, the ten year old leans back into the embrace with a smile almost as pained as their own.

Dick and Steph have been training the little demon in age-appropriate behaviour.  It’s paying off, because six months ago, Tim would have lost fingers regardless of audience.

"Damian was just telling me about his home schooling," the reporter shares, her smile widening coquettishly as she watches them intently.  It’s an unusual line of inquiry; does Vale think she’ll find more secrets in Damian’s IHIP?

"Did he tell you about his science project?" Tim asks mildly, his possessive hold sending a different message.  _Mine.  Don’t touch_.

"I’m afraid he lost me with the chemistry behind it all," Vale laughs politely.

"Biology," Damian mutters under his breath.  "Genetic engineering.  Not chemistry."

Tim doesn’t even try to soften his smirk.

Not cowed, the woman takes a risk in tousling Damian’s hair.  The overconfidence is staggering, but she’ll pay for that later when Bruce isn’t watching Tim’s ethics quite so closely.

"A doctor in the making, I’m sure," Vale teases.  "Following in your grandfather’s footsteps?"

_Which one?_

"He’d make a good vet," Tim shrugs, resting his chin on the top of Damian’s head to prevent the reporter from trying the same trick twice.  "Or an artist.  Musician.  Olympic Athlete."  Tim’s grin has teeth to it now.  "This kid can do anything."

Fifty percent fact, fifty percent threat, and their adversary knows it.

Tim squeezes his little brother lightly to keep Damian from proving it then and there.  “It’s getting kind of late though, and you should be in bed, kiddo.”

Ms. Vale’s eyes narrow, understanding ‘bed’ to be code for ‘patrol.’  She isn’t wrong.

"Of course," Damian takes the hint gracefully and slips out of Tim’s grasp to shake hands as a little gentleman raised by Alfred Pennyworth should.  "Goodnight, Ms. Vale.  I hope you enjoy the party."

_And Ms. Kyle acting as Father’s date for the evening._

Damian turns back to Tim and exacts his revenge in an embrace that threatened to rearrange internal organs.  “Will you tuck me in, Timothy?”

Tim raises an eyebrow at the juvenile request, but patrol beats party so he makes a show of steadying himself with his cane.  “Of course,” he agrees, issuing his challenge sweetly, reeling Damian back in to drop a kiss on the younger boy’s head.  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

If Damian wants to play chicken with public displays of affection, Tim will win.  He’s had a lot of practice growing up with Dick.

Damian definitely can’t hold the look of disgust back much longer.  Tim chuckles and pushes him lightly in the direction of the stairs.  “Go get ready.  I’ll catch up.”

"Promise?"  _You’ll regret this, Drake._

"Promise."  _You sure about that?_

Damian takes off without a backward glance, and Tim turns to make his own excuses to the reporter

"What a charming child," she lies through her teeth as Tim brushes a kiss against her cheek dutifully.

Friend of the family or not, Red Robin doesn’t trust her.

"Best kid ever," he insists pleasantly as he retreats—his gaze cold and hard.

_Come after him and I will ruin you._


	11. Fair Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for kiragecko's little sister - "Tim and Damian - 14 [Clinging]"

"Absolutely not," Damian hissed.  "You can’t trade yourself for me, Drake!"

"Can," Tim murmured, tying off the tourniquet.  "Will.  _Am_.”

"I said no!"

"Be quiet and hold still, Damian," Tim ordered sternly.  "Keep pressure on this.  B will be here for you soon."

Damian caught his arm as Tim started to stand, wrenching the older boy back down to his level.  “Father is coming for _us_ , Drake.  _Us …_  I can’t return alone.”

"Yes, you can," Tim snapped, breaking his brother’s grip and pushing him back against the wall.  "You wait for B, you go home, you continue being the best Robin possible, and you grow up.  Do you understand me?"

Damian grabbed Tim’s ankle in response.

Tim kicked him off and turned away.  Ra’s was waiting for him at the end of the corridor, and he would not wait forever.

"Red!  Red Robin!  Drake!"

Tim spun belatedly.  He hadn’t expected Damian to be able to move with those injuries, but the younger vigilante’s lunge nearly knocked Tim over.

Tim hadn’t meant to catch the boy, but it was too late now.

"I won’t let you," Damian breathed through the pain, determinedly wrapping all four limbs around Tim’s torso.  "I won’t let you do this."

"Get off me," Tim warned sharply.

"No."

Tim pried one hand loose.  The other got a better grip on his bandoliers which Tim released automatically.  Damian muttered darkly in another language as he caught his fingers in the collar of Red Robin’s uniform instead.

"I mean it, Damian, let me go," Tim insisted, twisting in an attempt to dislodge the smaller vigilante.  Damian only clung harder, digging his chin into Tim’s shoulder.

Ra’s bodyguard approached to help peel the boy off, but Damian had a grip like King Kong and lashed out with his good leg.  The White Ghost dodged it easily, aiming a strike of his own at the compound fracture.

Damian howled, but hung on.

Tim took out the offender’s kneecap and turned on Ra’s al Ghul with righteous fury.  “The bargain was that Damian would not be harmed any further!”

"The bargain was that you came without a fight, Detective," Ra’s reminded him.  "I will not wait forever."

"You can’t have him, old man!" Damian shouted into Tim’s ear rather than risk moving his head and losing leverage.  "I may not be an al Ghul any longer, but I am still the son of _Batman_ , Grandfather!  This is  _my_ brother, Ra’s al Ghul, and I … _I will kill you first_ _!”_

Ra’s raised one aristocratic eyebrow, but Tim interrupted before the Demon’s Head could retaliate, shouting over his younger brother: “That’s enough, Robin!”

The stunned silence wouldn’t last.  Damian was already taking another breath to fuel his protest and Tim shook the boy hard.  “I said,” he continued in a more dangerous tone, “that’s enough.”

"I won’t let you do this," Damian repeated stubbornly.  "He means to make you his _vessel_ , Drake.  There’s no coming back from that!”

Tim sighed and tightened his grip on the younger boy.  “I know.”

"Then stop being so foolish.  We can take them, Drake.  Together."

Tim could perhaps … if he was alone.  Damian would likely bleed out trying … _if_ one of the ninja didn’t cut him down from across the room and _if_ Ra’s was lying about what other surprises Talia had left in Damian’s spine.

Tim was buying the child’s freedom with his own, and trusting that Ra’s remained a man of his word.  The Demon’s Head could be honorable when the promise suited him, and Tim would be holding the immortal to this one.

"You can’t just throw your life away," Damian argued as Tim took another damning step towards Ra’s.  "Does Father mean so little to you?  Brown?  _Grayson?”_ He kicked his feet despite the pain, bruising Tim’s hip with his vibrantly-coloured combat boots.  “You will make Pennyworth cry, you _ass_.  And the Titans … the Titans will come after you.  They will not forgive you this, Drake.  _I_ will not forgive you.”

"I’m counting on it," Tim murmured, curling one hand protectively at the base of his brother’s skull.  "I’m counting on you, Damian … to do what they can’t."

Damian recoiled, but Tim hung on now, keeping the younger boy’s face pressed into his neck.  “You can’t ask that of me,” Damian whispered.  “I made a promise.”

"You were willing to break it just a minute ago," Tim teased softly, rocking his little brother.  Serious: "You’re going to be stronger than me, Damian.  I need you to be stronger than him."

"I hate you," Damian exhaled.  "I _hate_ you, Drake, and I won’t do it.  _I won’t!”_

Tim delivered the nerve strike before Damian’s voice could rise any further.  “You will,” he told Damian, cradling the child’s limp form with care for just a moment longer.  “I’m counting on you.”


	12. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for anonymous - "5 [tackle-hug] for Robin Jason and Discowing Dick if you want to?"

Jim Gordon stared as a small tuxedoed blur sent Bruce’s ward staggering, but the billionaire smoothly rescued Dick’s champagne and continued suggesting ludicrous donations to compensate for city-wide budget cuts.

Not that the Commissioner of Police minded brand new computers on every desk in the precinct, but Bruce Wayne would bankrupt his company one day on the charitable endeavors.

"You alright, son?" Jim asked Dick as the younger man’s assailant took off across the ballroom with a familiar hair-raising cackle.

"Yes, sir.  Brothers, you know?"

"Brothers," Jim agreed with a pang of regret.

Although the conversation continued with or without them, Jim didn’t try to reengage the distracted younger man.  While perfectly polite, Dick continued shifting restlessly as he peered through the crowds and bounced on his toes for a better view.

Jim assumed that the young man had finally located his target when Dick abruptly excused himself and headed in the direction of the desert table.

"Shouldn’t you intervene?" he murmured to Bruce without interrupting their hostess.

The billionaire followed his gaze as Dick plucked his younger brother from a crowd of sociable matrons.  “I doubt they’ll need a referee.  As I understand it, the game has only one rule.”

"Oh?"

"Your target must be caught unawares," Bruce clarified with some amusement.  "It’s a silly game—Dick’s fault mostly, but Jason can always be pulled into a good competition no matter how ridiculous."

Jim refrained from mentioning the investigation from last week where he had personally witnessed the Dark Knight sneaking up on his own sidekick.

Parents had to stick together.

Besides, the smug satisfaction with which the updated tally was delivered in the Batman’s terror-inducing tones had been an impressive paternal feat indeed.


	13. The Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for beallofthem; "The Raven" in honour of Edgar Allan Poe and Halloween

"I know I’m not lucky enough to be hallucinating," Damian began conversationally, "but the death omen interpretation has some merit. Gotham knows you’re the agent of my perpetual torment."

"Less lit crit," Drake croaked. "More ass-kicking."

Damian obliged. “Hallucination or punishment, at least Poe’s bird was of a blessedly limited vocabulary.”

Drake had the nerve to bite him, launching from Damian’s shoulder to traumatize the ninja personally.

"And stationary!" Damian shouted after the offended bird, rotating his shoulder gingerly to accommodate the return of feeling to the nerve-deadened limb.

The raven ignored him, spiraling in a daring aerial maneuver and taking a ninja’s hood with him.

"I don’t know why I bother," Damian muttered, knocked the blinded man out automatically. "I should just leave you like this … you’re certainly more useful in this form."

The sulky bird settled on Damian’s shoulder once again: “Don’t even think about it, Little Demon. If you don’t get my body back from your grandfather by midnight, I really will haunt you “forevermore.”“


	14. The Tell-Tale Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for lethargicprofessor: "The Tell-Tale Heart" in honour of Edgar Allan Poe and Halloween

Bruce never liked Tim’s attachment to the memorial case. The conversations his new sidekick had with the empty costume were unnerving for all they mirrored Bruce’s own one-sided confessions.

Tim didn’t hear the ticking though, and Bruce thanked whatever was left if Jason for that small mercy. Robin didn’t know.

No one did.

No one else heard the irrepressible ticking of a bomb that had already gone off … a mechanical heartbeat meant to remind him—and him alone—of his sins.

Alfred, Dick, Barbara, Tim were innocent.

The ticking did not bother them as it taunted Bruce. They smiled and laughed, worked and lectured as if blissfully unaware of Bruce’s obvious guilt.

They could not judge him, because they knew only what he had told them, and Bruce had told them nothing.

So they heard nothing …

… unless they have only been pretending to be deaf.


	15. The Oval Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for heartslogos: "The Oval Portrait" in honour of Edgar Allan Poe and Halloween

"Any luck, Master Jason?"

"Yeah, I found the missing cufflinks, but almost gave myself a heart attack when I uncovered that freaky painting in the corner …"

Jason trailed off as the old man followed his gaze and blanched.

"Alfred?"

It took a moment for the butler to find his tongue, but his tone was almost perfectly even if crisp and a touch formal: “We try to leave that particular portrait covered, Master Jason.”

The younger man stared at the piece.

It was a boy … a couple years younger than Jason, neatly dressed in a designer suit, a book in his hand, and a slightly bewildered smile on his face.

"It’s not a bad painting," Jason shifted uncomfortably.  "It just startled me is all.  I thought he was real for a second."

"It’s a masterful work," Alfred agreed, "If a trifle sad.  The boy is Master Timothy.  He stayed with us a short time while you were … away."

 _Away_ was such a pretty metaphor for _dead_.

So this was the third Robin, an all too brief replacement that served at Bruce’s side while Jason was absent.  This was the boy who had disappeared into an unforgiving city.

Dead or gone, he still looked _real_.


	16. Anagnorisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for incogneat-oh

"I am not asking your forgiveness, Drake!"

It was not an old fight, but it was rehashed about once a year with no less fervor than their initial argument and loss adding a strange bite to familiar words.

For the first time, however, the fight seemed to come to a swift standstill as Tim gaped at the younger hero over the locked wooden staves.

Damian was more than capable of holding his gaze now; his legal brother was and _would always be_ younger, but at seventeen, the most recent graduate of Robin red was no smaller than his predecessor.

"You hold me accountable for decisions that I do not regret," Damian bit off, the steel in his voice ringing as if they were crossing blades rather than the handier wooden training weapons.  "Therefore, I do not require your forgiveness."

"You tried to kill me!"

 _So what_ , the tired accusation seemed to wither in mid-air, _trauma and nosebleeds, broken cases and stolen jackets were all par for the course in Gotham … *I was here first, stink-face.*_

"If I had been serious about finishing you off, I would have done so while you lay unconscious in the wreckage."

Empty promises and the _could-have, should-have, would-haves_ held even less weight than the seven year old accusation, no matter how true the words might ring.  _*I could beat you up.  I could … if I wanted to.*_

"You really are a sociopath," Tim grunted, putting more of his weight into the staff.

"Inaccurate," Damian corrected, the pressure of his stance not letting up in the slightest.  "I have both empathy and a moral code, Drake.  Do you?"

"And what’s that supposed to mean?" Tim returned coldly, folding abruptly under their combined weight and rolling as Damian stumbled over him.

"You uphold Father’s code, because you have none of your own," Damian challenged, using the safety railing as a springboard back into the fight.  "Every display of heroism is only a grain of sand meant to balance the scales of your own selfish intent."

Damian made the mistake of swinging his weapon wide, and Tim spun his own, stabbing upward into Damian’s gut.  The younger fighter stumbled backwards, but stolen wind could be regained … and swiftly too.

"It is another whisper of doubt in our ears," Damian continued, falling back to recalculate.  His voice rose slightly, affecting Dick’s more lyrical cadence:  _"Oh no, not him.  Not Tim."_

Tim aimed a high kick at Damian’s skull, but the younger man ducked neatly without pressing a physical advantage.  He didn’t need to when the rapid-fire wordplay was already in his favor.

 _"Not Tim,"_ Damian countered in Steph’s bemused tones, because Bruce was still off-limits to the both of them.  _"Not my Tim, not my prince charming, not my **hero**.”_

"One of these days," Tim exhaled a word on every measured breath, "I really will rip your vocal chords out."

"If only you could divest yourself of that lying tongue so easily," Damian bared his teeth in what might have been a grin.

How cute; the Batman thought that he had _actually_ won.

"How slippery the truth becomes when it stands in the way of your random crusades …"

Tim pitched his staff across the floor at just the right speed and angle to catch in the younger man’s gait and send Damian crashing to the floor.

Tim had his boot planted in the center of his brother’s chest before Damian could roll, much less shove himself upright.  “Are they really that random?” Tim challenged softly.

Damian snarled, but didn’t try to lift the boot.  He knew the kind of surprises secreted away in every inch of their armor.  “I have been over every file,” Damian seethed.  “I have read every report, and I see _no pattern_.”

Tim clucked softly, finding something of his mother in the sound and perhaps something of Alfred in the mercy he showed his wayward charge.

"I do what is _needed_ ,” the new (the last, the _eternal_ _)_ Robin whispered, “for those who have need of _me_ … as _long_ as they need me.”

He released Damian.

"Who would need you, Drake?" the younger man demanded resentfully, rubbing at the tone-on-tone Bat newly emblazoned across his chest.

Tim smiled:  “At the rate you’re going, Bat- _man_ , you will never be rid of me.”


End file.
